Beating tired bones again
by Solain Rhyo
Summary: They don't have time but he makes time anyway, time to tell her who she is to him, what she means, how he feels. (Mild spoilers for "The World Before.")
1. Chapter 1

"You good?"

"Yeah."

One word, one simple goddamn word but it breaks him a little to hear it because he knows it's a lie. It breaks him even more because she's lying to _him, _because he's not sure she's even aware she's doing it, because of all the reasons that make her feel like she has to. He watches as she swallows hard, as moonlight makes the trail of her tears gleam, as she dredges up a smile so dismal and broken that he feels an answering knot form in his throat. She _is _a ghost. Like a ghost, she's forgetting how to _be. _There's only one thing fettering her to this reality and he's terrified of what will happen when that tether finally snaps.

"We should go," he says, voice rasping over that knot. What he really means is _we should get away from here. We should run away. We should– _

Too late for shoulds, now. They're in and there's no way out because it's not just the two of them this time. Others have committed to this blatant act of insanity. Still, he can't seem to convince his fingers to let go of her shoulders. If he does, he knows, they will never get this moment back. Time's never played fair in their favor and it feels like they're running out of it now so he clings to her in the only way he knows how. Beneath his grip her shoulders rise and fall, stuttering as she tries to subdue an errant sob. She's broken. She's been broken before but this time she's missing key pieces and he doesn't think she can maintain cohesion without them.

There are so many things he wants to do right now in this miniscule, insufficient scrap of time they have together before shit goes south like it always does. There are so many things he wants to do and wants to say but even though this is _their _time there's not enough time and it's the cruelest fucking paradox. Instead he steps closer, slides his hands down to grip her upper arms, and rests his head against hers. Maybe she'll feel him willing her to stay whole. Maybe she'll stop losing fragments of herself with every impulsive action she takes and lie she tells. Maybe when this is all over she won't be what he fears she'll be, a tatterdemalion husk finally worn down by the ravages of this life. He loves her and he's loved her and he should have told her a million times over but always found a way to reason himself out of it. He's trying to tell her now. He's been trying to tell her since she got off that boat. Would it matter if he did? Would it change anything? Would it change her back?

His lips are on hers suddenly, astonishing her, surprising himself. His lips are on hers and she is absolutely still and he thinks _I've really fucked this up now _but he doesn't pull away. He keeps kissing her, pressing his mouth to hers without insistence but with urgency, because he needs this and she needs this too. She does. She needs an anchor to the world of the living because without it she'll willingly cross over to the other side. She is motionless and she is silent and he abruptly feels brittle – it won't take much for him to crack.

She kisses him back. Lifts her head and pushes her mouth against his, finally responding and he's a different kind of brittle now, the kind that only she can break and only in a good way. She melts into him and he always knew they'd fit together right, corresponding shapes finally coming home. His arms are around her and her head is on his shoulder and he feels her tears wetting the fabric of his shirt. His mouth misses hers but that's okay because at least he got to experience it once and _please, god _he wants to experience it again. He will do anything to have more moments like this with her. _Anything. _And he knows with grim certainty that life will take him up on that challenge sooner rather than later.

"We should go," she whispers. "The others…"

_– __don't matter, _he wants to say, except they do. They do. But not like she does. Nothing will ever matter the way she does. So his fingers find her chin and tilt her head back and he kisses her again once, twice, and now he's cupping her face in his hands and he's so intent on kissing her that he doesn't realize he's driving them both backward. She catches at his elbows, reminding him suddenly that they're in enemy territory rigged with traps and littered with walkers and Whisperers. He gives her one last kiss and it's more of a nip, really, and then he lets her go. He steps back, watching her watching him, her blue eyes wide and glistening. He holds out his hand. _I'll be your anchor. I'll hold you together. Just please let me. _

She moves, slides her fingers around his. The rush of relief he feels is nearly staggering and it's all he can do not to throw himself at her and simply _hold _her for hours, for days. Instead he turns, tugging her with him, onward into the unwelcoming dark. He leads and she follows, deferring to his superior skills as he sets upon the path their allies had taken.

"You n' me, we need to talk when this is over."

A few beats of silence, and then: "I thought we just did."

"Talk more," he elaborates, glancing back at her.

She's smiling just a little. It's a real smile, not a forced one, not a mockery of one. His heart soars. "Okay," she says. "When this is over."

His hand tightens around hers.

**.x.**


	2. Chapter 2

Daryl sees Alpha a heartbeat after Carol does. Her name falls from his mouth, sharp, alarmed, but she's already lunging forward. One glimpse of the Whisperer was all it took to ignite the hatred and the rage and the loss that have pervaded her since that day at the pikes and it's the resulting inferno that's controlling her now, overriding every other instinct. What she wants, he knows, is to inflict hurt of such magnitude that it won't only destroy Alpha; no, it'll consume her too even though she thinks it won't. Or maybe she knows it will. He's not sure anymore. He launches himself after her, shouting a warning at the others as he does so.

She scrabbles down the bank of a small ravine, the water it holds just an insubstantial ribbon at the very bottom. She's got one foot planted, prepared to climb up the other side when he catches up with her. He doesn't bother to adjust his speed, instead slamming into her, roping his arms around her. His momentum carries them both to the side and they stumble, his foot catching one of hers. They almost fall together, locked in this desperate dance. She's swearing at him, hurling epithets and pleas in a broken voice. He ignores what she says, his eyes skimming up the bank to where Alpha stands, a pale-eyed and pale-skinned abhorrent thing. Alpha meets his eyes before her gaze dips, focusing on Carol, and he feels Carol's entire body stiffen the moment they make eye contact. One corner of Alpha's mouth curls upward, a calculated and malevolent expression that has the effect she intended. Carol shoves her elbow backward, jabbing him in the ribs. His breath _oomphs_ out of him, his grip loosening but not enough for her to wriggle free. He hauls her backward in a tandem stagger. Alpha watches them both before she turns and runs toward a prominent dark cleft in a jutting rocky outcropping. It's an invitation, blatant and unmistakable, meant for them all but especially for Carol.

She is still aflame, burning to accept that invitation. _"Daryl,"_ she pleads, and it's a raw, wounded sound. The others have caught up with them, are milling around in alarmed confusion. It's to them he speaks next.

"They know we're here," he announces, arms still around her, hands gripping her wrists. "We need to go."

Aaron takes charge, directing them back the way they came. He turns, taking in wild-eyed Carol held secure in Daryl's grip. "We'll catch up," Daryl tells him. "We'll find you. Go!"

Aaron hesitates, his expression torn, but Daryl's mouth opens to bark the order again. Jerry seizes Aaron by the shoulder, pulling him around, rattling off inane assurances to them all in his effort to rectify what has suddenly and (not so) unexpectedly gone very wrong. They leave as Daryl ordered them to, though, because survival is a concept that has been beaten into them, because they _have _survived this long. Daryl intends that he and Carol follow so he walks them backward, an endeavor hindered by her continued struggling.

"Carol!" He bites out her name and her actions lessen but don't cease. He leans his head forward, his chin on her shoulder, whispers words rapid and low in her ear. "It's a trap. You know it's a trap."

Against his arms, her sides rapidly expand and contract with her ragged exhales. She's still pulling against him but that fire's fading. He keeps talking, rattling off words meant to extinguish, to soothe, pulling her with him back up the first bank and into the woods. His eyes are glued on that opening in the rock, expecting Whisperers to come flooding out of it, expecting Alpha to reappear with that hurtful baiting expression he wants to carve right off her face in an echo of what she does to the dead. Several seconds pass and nothing appears, but all the shouting will have drawn the attention of any walkers nearby. Carol abruptly ceases pulling against his hold, becoming almost limp in his arms. He removes his fingers from her wrists, transfers them to her shoulders, and turns her around to face him - cautiously, because there's a noticeable ache in his side where she elbowed him.

He expects fury and hellfire. He sees emptiness. She's looking at him out of eyes that are disturbingly blank. She's shuttered herself away again. It pisses him off, honestly, because he's already told her the truth of things both with and without words. Time later for his own bitter version of censure. "We gotta go."

She nods. He takes her hand and she doesn't fight it. Twines his fingers with hers and he's surprised when she squeezes back. Maybe she's not shut away completely.

**.x.**

He rounds on her hours later, when they've put good distance between themselves and Alpha's trap, when they've crossed the boundary again. It's not the same place they originally crossed but they're on the right side now, at least - for all the good it will do considering they were just caught trespassing. He rounds on her and is unable and unwilling to keep the keen edge of anger out of his words.

"Last night," he says.

It's all he needs to say. All of her earlier rebelliousness is gone. She can't look him in the eye. Won't. She speaks quietly. "I'm sorry."

"Are you?"

She's looking at the ground. He stalks right up to her, using the backs of his knuckles to tip her head back, not ungently. She has to look at him now but she tries not to, eyes darting around until they're drawn right back to his own. "Are you?" he demands again.

"You don't know," she tells him in a voice so low it can barely be heard. Anguish makes the words scrape out until they're frayed. "You don't know what seeing her does to me."

"I don't," he concedes, still furious while at the same time aching for her, for what she feels, for what he can't fix. "I don't, and I can't, but you talk to me. You talk to _me. _Like we talked about last night."

"Talking won't bring them back!"

"You think killing her will?"

Carol blinks. There is a very long pause. She blinks again and there's moisture brimming in her eyes. She says, "It couldn't feel any worse than this."

He wants to scream at her. He wants to shake her until reason, which she's not only abandoned but obliterated completely, returns. He wants to drop to his knees in supplication that she stop chasing death. He takes a deep breath, then another, then another, until everything he's feeling isn't on the verge of strangling him. It's only then he trusts himself to speak.

"What do you want me to do?"

"You don't have to-"

"Carol." He uses an emphasis he's never used before, one that startles her into being silent. "Tell me. Whatever I need to do, I'll do it. You want her dead that bad? I'll do it. I'll find that bitch and bring back her head. Just say it. Please. Say what you need."

She swallows, eyes widening in a bid to keep the tears contained. She lifts a hand, jabs two fingers against her chest where her heart lies. "It's right there," she whispers. "There's something missing right there and I can't get it back. Doesn't matter what I do or what you do, it's gone. It's _gone._ Trying to fill it doesn't work. I've tried. I went out on the boat. I came back. It's still missing."

"One thing you ain't tried."

"One thing I care about too much to drag down with me," she counters with a shaking exhale.

"One thing you don't control," he reminds her, taking a step closer. "One thing that ain't never gonna leave you."

"You should," she says, but it's half-hearted. One tear escapes and she surprises him by suddenly closing the distance between them, colliding with him, hands gripping the edges of his kutte tightly. His arms are around her, hauling her against him, resting his chin on the top of her head. She's not crying, at least he doesn't think so, though her body is so tightly wound he can fairly feel the tension radiating off of her.

He asks, "This what you need?"

She gives a little nod of her head.

He draws back a bit, just enough to ghost his lips against her brow. "Then it's what you get. Always. You come to me for anything. For everything. From now on that's what you do, all right?" Another nod, but that's not good enough. "Say it."

She wants to but she doesn't want to, he knows, because saying it means she'd have to adhere to it and she's still trying to find a way to destroy herself. She makes him soft in ways nobody else could ever hope to but not in this. Not where her life is concerned. She hesitates for too long and he grips her by the elbows, pushing himself away in order to see her face. "I'll come to you," she agrees in a sudden rush. She's looking him in the eye as she says it. She means it.

"When we get back, we'll figure this shit out. With Alpha and everything else. Find Lydia, bring her home first, though."

"Okay." He studies her intently and she endures it in silence. She's not being meek right now. She's just accepting the new rules, the new guidelines, the new ties between them both. He tugs her nearer, presses his mouth to hers, experiences a thrill to feel her kiss him back. Way too easy to get lost in that activity, though, so he reluctantly reels his eagerness in and puts some distance between them both.

"C'mon. We gotta go. Aaron and the other should be halfway back by now. Might be able to catch them."

She nods. He starts walking but she waylays him with a hand on his arm. He halts, half-turning, his look a questioning one.

"I think I'll - I'm going to need a lot," she says haltingly, and elaborates as he cocks an eyebrow, "from you. For this. I need-"

"Me," he finishes for her as though there was no other answer, because there _is _no other answer.

"But what if I need more than you can... than you're able to...?" Frustrated at her inability to articulate, she expels a sigh, passing her hand over her eyes. "I'm a goddamn mess, Daryl."

"Yeah," he readily agrees. Her eyes narrow a bit at that cavalier reply; he can't help the little amused noise that escapes him in response. "But I know you clean up all right. That's what I'll do."

"Clean me up?" she asks, pointedly eyeing his clothes that are perpetually covered in varying states of grime.

"Hold you together."

"Fix me?"

"You don't need fixin'."

"I do."

"You don't. You need..." and he stumbles here, unable to think of an adequate word.

"You?"

He gives her one of those rare, fleeting smiles she's come to value more than most anything else in this world. "Yeah. Me."

**.x.**


End file.
